


It Was Always About Anna

by VeryCrofty



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Family, Gen, back story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:31:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryCrofty/pseuds/VeryCrofty





	1. A Soldier's Guilt

“Booker?” 

Annabelle tapped her knuckles lightly against the door. The door swung inward of its own accord even under her lightest touch. Behind it only the darkness of the apartment could be seen. Her eyes adjusted to the small amount of light filtering in around the thick curtains. It was a sparse place from what she could make out. A table here, as desk there, and a thin mattress tossed in the corner. Then, Booker had never had much, what with his father being the way he was. She’d just been glad he’d found a place at all. 

Her heels clicked on the creaking floor as she went for the window but the slumped figure passed out face down on the mattress caught her attention first. 

“Booker!” She dropped down onto her knees beside him. Seizing him by the shoulder she hauled him onto his back. “Booker...” 

He groaned rousing slowly, “What?” 

“Criminy, Booker!” she smacked him on the shoulder. 

“Hey...” 

“You just about scared the daylights out of me.” 

She dropped him on his back and stood, returning to her intent on the windows, “Where have you been? No one’s seen you for three days.” 

“Uh... here.” 

“Here? You mean to say that... the whole time?” her hands clenched in the thick curtains. “I was worried sick about you.” 

“Anna, I --” 

She threw open the curtains flooding the room with mid-morning sunlight. Making a noise somewhere between a groan and a hiss, Booker threw up his arms to protect himself from it. 

“Those were closed for a reason,” he grumbled. 

“Obviously not a good one,” she retorted. “Besides, some sunlight will do you good after...” in the new light she could now see the bottles. “Booker, are you drunk?” 

He lifted the empty whiskey bottle beside him and frowned, “I was.” 

“What has gotten into you?” she asked collecting two more bottles from the floor. “I’ve never seen you act this way. Ever since you came back from The Dakotas--” 

“Now don’t you start too,” he said angrily pushing himself upright. “If you knew even half the hell I’d been through--” 

“Booker DeWitt, you will not raise your voice at me!” 

A sudden, violent silence fell between them so thick it congealed in the air. The intensity at which they met each other’s glares held it firm. After a moment Anna's face softened. She cast her eyes downward, fingers tangled in her skirt. 

“I’m trying to help you, Booker,” she said, her voice low. “But I can’t do that if you won’t talk to me.” 

He sat back against the wall, head reclined at an angle that allowed her to see more of his neck than his face. Teeth sinking into his lower lip, he shook his head, “I can’t.” 

She descended to his level once more, kneeling before him in a puddle of skirts, “Please, just talk to me.” 

He remained silent. His eyes avoided hers under a furrowed brow. Whatever dark secrets haunted him were visible in the pain on his face, in his white knuckled stranglehold on the bottle. He bowed his head, eyes on the floor, and gave a resigned sigh. 

“I did things,” he started, “things I’m not proud of. Wounded Knee. They called it a battle,” he gave a short, dry laugh. “It wasn’t a battle is was a massacre. We killed them. Hundreds of people, innocent, unarmed people. We slaughtered them all. And it wasn’t just men either,” he looked up at her his green eyes wet and ringed with red. “There were women and children. And I, I didn’t even have a good reason. It wasn’t even just orders either. I did it because of wounded pride. My hands, Anna,” he held them up as if to show her the evidence, “they’re stained red. They’re stained red and I can’t get it off. I, I can’t...” 

“Oh, Booker...” 

She reached out and pulled him in close. He collapsed into her burying his face in her shoulder. Then came the sobs. Shaking, violent sobs that racked his whole body. She held him closer arms around his shoulders, fingers in his hair. He was right. She had no idea of the hell he’d been through. The horrors he’d seen, he’d committed. Silence tears ran down her own face just at the thought of it. He wasn’t violent, at least, not that she’d ever seen. He’d gotten into a few scuffles growing up but no one was ever seriously hurt. To think of him killing people, it broke her heart. He didn’t have anyone else, no one to try and heal him. So she knelt there and did the only thing she could, held him for as long as he needed. 

“And then, when it was all over,” he sniffed, continuing. “They brought in a preacher, said, if we wanted, we could be baptized in the name of the Lord and washed of our sins. So I went. I went, I thought I could do it. But as I stood there about to go under I knew, no amount of holy words or water was ever going to wash away the things that I did. Some things can’t be forgiven.” 

She took his face in her hands, “Now you listen to me, Booker DeWitt. You are a good man who did a bad thing, but you can’t let that define you. I know right now it seems hopeless, like the darkness you’re stuck in is going to last forever. You just need someone to come in, throw back the curtain, and let in the light,” he smiled at her literal metaphor. “See, a little bit of light, that’s all you need. You just got to keep strong and carry on, in spite of it all. Because, and let me make this perfectly clear, God does not hate you and neither do I, and at the end of the day, that ought to be enough.” 

She pulled his face towards her kissed him on the forehead. Meanwhile her fingers worked the bottled out of his grip. 

“And no more of this, you hear?” she said tossing it a few feet away. 

He nodded. With a gathered breath Annabelle wiped the tears from her face and rose. She collected the bottle she’d tossed aside and placed it with the others. 

"And, Annabelle,” Booker said as she righted his desk chair, “God ain’t got nothing to do with it.” 

But as she sighed and turned away, he thought, _There must be a God in Heaven for giving me a girl like her._


	2. The Girl for the Debt

“We had a deal, DeWitt!” 

The harsh pounding was enough to severely rattle the door in its frame. Robert struggled against the urge to cover his ears. If Comstock kept this up he feared for the glass. 

“Open this door!” 

“Mr. Comstock, please, you are going to wake the entire building.” 

If the other man heard his chastisement he paid it no heed. The pounding continued. 

The horrendous banging split through his skull like a rail spike. Groggily he wiped a hand across his face and sat up straight. His neck was sore and stiff from having fallen asleep in his wooden desk chair again. The whiskey did that to him, everything did that to him. 

“Open this door, DeWitt!” 

“Alright, I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” he muttered stretching up out of his chair. 

He staggered across the room toward the faint glow of the front door and swung it out from under Comstock’s raised fist. 

“Goddamn. What d’you want?” was how he greeted them. 

DeWitt looked up, squinting through the light. The dark circles under his eyes and sallow flesh suggested he hadn’t slept well. The acrid stench of alcohol radiating off him indicated he was hungover, as well. Even still he seemed to recognize them. 

“Oh, it’s you,” he amended. “Uh, come on in.” 

He pushed the door open wider and gestured for them to enter. Robert followed the cue while Comstock remained stubbornly on the threshold. He’d already made it quite clear that he had no intention to enter DeWitt’s living space, which seemed fine by DeWitt. He simply returned to his desk in search of a bottle that wasn’t empty. Robert moved uncomfortably into the center of the room. It seemed to be purposed as only an office space but judging by the mattress in the corner it was DeWitt’s home as well. 

“We’re here to collect on our --” 

“I know why you’re here,” DeWitt cut him off pitching and empty bottle at the mattress. His fist clenched and released as he reined himself back in. “The girl for the debt. That’s our deal, right? Nothing... else.” 

“No. Just bring us the girl and wipe away the debt,” Robert answered attempting to sound cheery but the sentiment fell empty on the cheerless place. 

DeWitt shuffled around a few papers on the desk, “And what of my debts?” 

“Consider them already settled.” 

He nodded pushing himself upright, “Well then...” he rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s in here.” 

He gestured toward the only other door in the space. From it’s size Robert would have guessed it a closet or storage room but, as evident by the crib, DeWitt was using it as a nursery. He stayed in the doorway as DeWitt moved toward the crib. 

“Alright, c’mere, Anna.” 

For his half drunken state, he lifted the girl with surprising gentleness. She cooed with a small jingling giggle and reached her tiny hands up to brush the stubble on his chin. 

_Well he’s certainly not a mean drunk,_ Robert thought. 

“Named after her mother,” DeWitt said. Robert wasn’t entirely certain if the statement was meant for him. “Looks just like her too.” 

For a moment he seemed to forget his presence and a small blissful smile graced his lips. Robert’s stomach clenched. He suddenly doubted if DeWitt had made the right decision, giving up the girl. The bliss evaporated almost immediately when he remembered the situation. Guilt rose in his cheeks at his misplaced happiness. His eyes flickered up at Robert then back to the girl. 

“She... she’s going to be taken care of, right?” 

“Mr. Comstock assures me she will have only the best.” 

“Good.” DeWitt was suddenly across the room, forcibly but gently putting the girl in his arms, “Take her.” 

Robert struggled to find his articulation around the knot in his throat, “The debt is paid,” he said but could feel Comstock’s eyes burning a hole in his shoulder from the door. “Mr. Comstock washes you of all your sins.” 

The words burned in his throat as he turned on heel and strode toward the exit. What right had Comstock to wash DeWitt of anything, let alone sins? The man may believe that he was the superior version but Robert severely doubted that assertion. Rosalind had been clear in their communications that Comstock was a callous man who rarely showed even a shred of true kindness. The look of genuine love on DeWitt’s face when he had held his daughter was worth more than anything he’d seen of Comstock through the whole transaction. But Robert had to remind himself of his own stake in the matter. The girl was his ticket to Columbia. His role here was merely to mediate not to judge the character of those involved. He was a scientist not a theologian after all. 

Comstock waited outside the door and slammed it roughly after Robert’s exit. 

“It’s done,” Robert said handing him the child. “I believe her name is Anna.” 

“Her name,” Comstock said pointedly, “is Elizabeth.” 

Robert opened his mouth wanting to say something but the words died on his lips. Comstock would do as he pleased no matter what he said and he could not risk the repercussions of voicing his dissent. 

“Shall we?” he offered instead. 

“Yes,” Comstock agreed leading the way. “I would not stay in this den of sin any longer than I had to.” 

Booker waited in the nursery until he heard the door close. He let out a long breath. It was done. Returning to the main room he sat down heavily in his chair and ran his hands across his face. His toe nudged a bottle. A humorless laugh caught in his throat. He’d finally located that partial bottle of whiskey. It had just tipped over on the floor. 

_So this is it,_ he thought looking around the room. 

No daughter, no debt. He could start over now, fresh. Do, be anything he wanted. The slate was clean. 

_Then why do I feel so sick?_ he wondered. 

He scooped the bottle from the floor and placed it on the desk, the knot of dread building in his stomach. It washed over him in a wave of nausea. “What have I done?” 

He left his chair with enough force to knock it over and was out the door in seconds. 

“Where did they go?” 

He slammed the door behind him and sprinted down the hall. The stairs disappeared beneath him upwards of three at a time. They’d only just left. He could catch them, he had to. 

“Comstock, wait!” he called approaching the bottom floor. He hoped that was the name the suited man had mentioned. “I’ve reconsidered! I’ll find another way to pay you what’s owed, I just want my daughter back!” 

They weren’t in the entrance. His head, his heart, his everything was pounding as he burst out into the street. He spun hands in his hair. They couldn’t be gone already. 

“It’s fine, hurry!” 

“Fine, are you mad?” 

Voices. The alley. He ran to the corner of the building. The man he’d given Anna and another now holding her stood before some strange sort of hole in the wall. 

“Hey! The deal’s off!” he called down to them. “You hear? The deal is off!” 

They showed no signs of listening. 

“It’s ready! Go now!” 

When one of the two men stepped through the wall Booker broke into a sprint. He grabbed the one holding Anna and pulled him back. He grappled for her trying desperately not to hurt her. 

“Give her back!” he shouted. “Give her back, you son of a bitch!” 

Despite the look of him the other man was strong. He shouldered Booker off wrenching free of the grip and retreated toward the hole. 

“No!” Booker lunged jerking the man back by the shoulder. “Anna!” 

He’d spun the other man around. His arms were still extended through the hole. 

“Shut it down!” he screamed “Shut it down!” 

Booker bared his teeth. He almost had her, his fingers brushed the swaddling cloth 

“Give me back my daughter!” the other man gave one final jerk and his grip slipped. “No!” 

Whatever held the wall open began to close. Crying, Anna reached for him but he could not stop it. It closed rapidly taking almost all of her with it. 

Booker dropped to his knees hands pressed against the now perfectly solid wall. A hot biting wetness welled up in his eyes. He found the tiny dismembered finger laying on the rubbish by the wall. His hand closed around it, squeezing as though it might bring her back. Now it was all he had. A tiny finger that belonged to a tiny hand that belonged to a pair of big blue eyes that had always looked at him with an unconditioned love, never judging, never knowing all the terrible things he’d done. She was the only thing he’d ever done right and now she was gone. 

“Anna...”


End file.
